


the carry home waltz

by wegotodecember (imaginedecember)



Series: the carry home waltz [6]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Multiple Universes, Prophecy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-13 08:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17484251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginedecember/pseuds/wegotodecember
Summary: You wanna believe in dreams, in miracles, in prophecies, in multiple universes, in stopping things in other times where you don't belong, in this, whatever's going on in that head of your's. But you can't, you can't.And, then, softly on the backend,cry, heart, but never break.This was the carry home waltz.The deer that sang to him as it bounded alongside the wolf howling at the moon. Spilling lanterns on to canvases of blue mixes of human nature and nature herself, of reds and orange of sunsets, the end, and green of Earth.Yes, the phantom of the west wind that resided in John's mind.Sure as shit it was crazy but John followed the phantom to the very end.Yes, to stop the great, dying end.This is a REMIX of the original series and can be read separately. Spoilers for the whole game.





	the carry home waltz

**Author's Note:**

> Someone really needs to pry this series from my dead hands but I just cannot help but add to it. I think this is the final part...maybe.
> 
>  **Don't have to read previous series. This is a remix of it.** There will be little notes and winks from the previous stories but this is, more or less, its own product. 
> 
>   **EXPLAINATION:**  
>  **Arthur is not in the gang**. He is a real person but has his own life as someone who reports weather to the government and who traps, hunts, and helps people. 
> 
> I have also given Arthur a third ability, Mother Eye, which allows him to see nature's moods, as in weather, and human moods, as in their auras. 
> 
> This is also a **Soulmate AU**. Soulmates come as voices in the head and when they do, that typically means that the soulmates are near enough to each other. Voices can also be soulmates from other universes. 
> 
> In addition to soulmates, there are **Prophecies**. It's essentially prophecy that all four men, Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, and John, are and should be connected as a whole. 
> 
> **Timeline** : 
> 
> A little note on the timeline. Story'll start when John finds out Jack is his then fast forward to Horseshoe Overlook and stay in that area for the rest of the story.

_Some men die under the mountain just looking for gold_

_Some die looking for a hand to hold_

_-At the Bottom by Brand New_

 

And John was lost, so very, very lost.

And his thoughts were spinning and spinning to dark, burrowed places deep down in his extreme tiny heart.

So dark and deep they were.

He choked and choked on them as they came up and up and the voice, that voice, the-.

“John, John. You gotta turn back. Go be with your family.” 

John ripped at his hair. It was too long. Too long. Instead of ripping, he turned to wrapping the ratty strands, all tangled from a trip up some mud and into a horse shit ditch. Wrap and wrap along fingers and watched them choke the blood supply out.

He slammed his holey boots into deep mud and fell, screaming, on to his knees. He held his chest like it was a bursting dam. Drowning in the flood waters that he had made.

“Tell me what to do. Tell me what to do.”

But the voice in his head was mighty silent. A gulf between them built from invisible bricks.

And John was lost, so sorrowfully lost.

Because, because, oh jesus, Abigail she-.

“John, the boy’s yours. I know it’s yours. Ain’t nobody be loving me like that except you.” And her screaming, her raw, guttural screaming as John took that information, filed it with all the jagged father memories he had, and bolted. Spooked and gone a running. Like always. Like always.

His knees were soaked in mud and water, in Earth and sad, sorrowful floods. And John found himself screaming too because he couldn’t be a father. He couldn’t. And the stupid voice in his head wasn’t telling him shit. His poor heart. Weeping. Gone. Ribs ached. He pounded his chest. He let the scream teeter totter out.

“I can’t. I can’t.” 

He just…god help him, it was a flaw for sure. He felt so…extremely. Was that the right word? Didn’t matter. He just felt and what he felt right now was stinking, rotting failure. Oh, the pressure. Sweet, harsh pressure sudden and strong. And the voice in his head echoed it, said, “Well, you know you can’t be what your father was.”

John nodded. Pressed his hands to his wilting cheeks, his hiccupping throat, his tangled hair. Down and up and over until he said, strong, sure as pressure, “I gotta be…what? Be there for him? How?” The ‘why’ was there because this wasn’t something John ever wanted. But the boy was gonna be there soon. 

The voice was sure as he said, “Listen to him. Do something other than running all the damn time.” And the voice had sounded experienced. It was new information, something else to focus on.

John blinked back waves of salt and sighed out, “You were a dad?” He said ‘were’ because he didn’t know who the voice was, if they were some dead phantom who attached to John, or some breakdown in John’s brain like all the times he’d been hit was coming back to haunt him. 

The voice gutted out from heart entrails, “Was one, sure. I tried my best with ‘em but the life I led…it wasn’t for them.” Then, tacked on, lower, quieter, “Neither was for me, I guess.”

John looked out at the scene around them. 

He breathed.

He stuck his hands into his gooey heart and poked at the deeper, harder to bring up memories. 

He breathed and he thought of hits, of reeking bars where they shouldn’t be, of not listening, and not caring.

He poked those things but took his hands out of his heart, still fearful for what was below but willing to press fingers to the surface.

And he breathed.

And he looked out and around him.

Buzzing, hot summer. At the tinkling bugs that stuck to damn near every part of John and the sticky, deep Earthy scent of freshly poured rain. The voice in his head had gone near screaming when John had gotten here, in this clearing, beyond the exploding trees and the chittering birds. Screaming, for John’s running, and for being here. 

His voice sure was a funny thing. They were so different, this voice and him.

He asked before he thought. “What’s your damn name anyway?” He had been itching to ask as soon as the voice spun its octave after John had bolted when Abigail said the boy was his. 

The voice didn’t hesitate. “Arthur.” Then, “Now, let’s get home, John, before I skin ya myself.”

John rolled his sticky, salty eyes. A laugh gurgled out. “Yeah, yeah.” A father. Psh. Yeah right. But he’d try. He knew what he didn’t like from his dad so he’d do the opposite. Arthur…wow, what a name, heh, he…he said to listen. 

And listen he would.

+

Welp.

Listening was sure a pain in John’s ass.

Just, like, dear god, John felt like ripping out his own ears so he wouldn’t have to hear the kid pitch a fit over something. But then he’d see Abigail with this look about her like ‘you see what I deal with all the time now?’ and then Arthur in his head which always laughed when she gave that look, and he’d kick at the dirt, breathe in, and try again. 

Jack was screaming about not wanting to go to bed. John had said, “Sleep’s good, Jack. You ain’t gonna get much of it with being on the run.” Jack was still young. He didn’t quite get that ‘being on the run’ meant two seconds from a bullet or a rope ending your life. Jesus. John shuddered. He didn’t wanna think about his kid like that, or what would happen to him if he had gotten got or if Abigail got taken too or-.

Arthur growled a bit in his head, the voice’s little sign that something was eating him as he had been doing that since the damn beginning. He was damn near rattling with it since Blackwater and worse still up in Colter in the snow and with the wolves that nearly ate John. Thank god for Charles and his sense and his absolute, whole heart. 

John always wondered what a man with a whole heart would be like. Arthur was sure like one, John supposed. ‘Cept he struggled. And growled. A lot. John was used to it by now. The waves of Arthur that came through. Some a hating and a growling, some self-hating and a growling, some sure and confident, but always soft. Warm. Earth. Like when Arthur had first come to him and he had landed screaming in the mud. Summer. That buzzing summer where John tripped over the boy’s existence but found himself righted. 

It had gotten a little shaky since the whole Blackwater thing. Dutch had been rubbing on John so wrongly as of late and the presence of Micah was withering at both John and Arthur. Arthur, especially, who come to think of it, if John was allowed such a thing, went dead quiet around Micah. No growling. No shuddering. And the tinges of John’s vision always went orange and reds like sunsets. John always felt dizzy after even looking at the damn fool as he sauntered and spun around Dutch like a sticky, vial, sucking life out of a bottle, fly. 

John wondered about that. About Arthur. About who the man was. All John had gotten out of him was that he sent weather reports to the government. Having Arthur calm when John so much as ventured out into a clearing gave John all the information he needed so it wasn’t much of a surprise that Arthur did that. And, well, he trapped and hunted and helped people. That was it. That was the whole package of Arthur that he had been given but John was still shaking the gift box looking for something because there was something. John wasn’t smart. As dumb as a damn rock. But…this feeling. Yeah. A feeling. A-.

“John.” Arthur dragging him back in. Then, “’M gonna head out. Got some people I need to help.”

John nodded to himself because of course. The minute John started getting rascally about Arthur, who he was, how he was in his damn head, and he was running to bolt. Maybe not so different after all, the two of ‘em. God. 

He bit out into his elbow in a half-aborted attempt to cough, “Be safe.” He had mumbled it out because all them scenes of what had happened with the gang before to now, and the thought of Jack just…and Arthur in his head with him being weird as of late, it soured him. It made him want to run away again like Arthur was doing just now.

But he let Arthur go. His mind went all shivery for a second, a tell-tale hollow absence. His own thoughts rattled about with nothing to bounce against and John frowned. He knew that these choices were his own. He could go digging for advice but the choice was his. But still. Not having Arthur to knock some sense into him and not having Arthur trust him-. That was it wasn’t it? Because why the hell would you trust the head of someone you can magically enter on a whim? God, all this was making him sorrowful.

He breathed. In. Out. Then, looked at Jack. Pouting with his arms across his chest and staring out at the cliffside edge. A perfect teenage John look. God. Horseshoe Overlook. What a stupid name for a stupid deed.

He reached out for Jack but let his hand hang there in the air between them. Touch wouldn’t be good. Might startle him. So, John retreated, cleared his throat and offered a treaty of sorts, “Look, I’ll take you…I don’t know fishing or something, and then you go to bed right after.” 

Jack didn’t spare him a look. Just pouted, all mean and mad at the world. Yeah, he was John’s alright. Didn’t need to look any further than this right here. “I hate fishing. And I hate you.” Yep. Sure was John’s.

John couldn’t help it. He laughed. Hard and rolling. It carried. And it made Jack growl harder at him and the pout seemed to grow its own wings. “Look, I hate fishing. You hate fishing. But I’ll fish with ya and you can…” He thought real hard on this. Didn’t just listen but dug around in his empty head for some images of what Jack carried with him, what he always rambled to Abigail about. There. “Drawing. You can draw and I’ll…I’ll fish. And then you’ll go to bed.”

The pout flew off, finally. And Jack smiled. A tiny, hopeful thing and John felt his wolf scars burn. He blinked back salt and stood. Finally, he breeched the gap between them and Jack clasped his hand with his and John led them to his horse. 

“You got your things with you?” John asked. Jack patted his jacket and beamed when the journal and pens he’d gotten from Hosea poked out. “Good.” He climbed on his horse and leaned down for Jack, gripping him tight, holding him in that moment as if it was final but praying it wasn’t, and heaving him up to sit in front of him. He dared to toss his hair back a bit to look over at their tent, and nodded a farewell when Abigail met his gaze. He was trying. And the tiny smile of hers matched the sunshine beam of his son’s. And he knew that she too thought he was trying. 

He fed his horse an oatcake, gave her a little kicking cry, and let her guide them out, away.

+

Their adventure out had gotten long. 

Jack had been drawing up a storm and petting all the plants, tilting them this way and that to get all their angles and parts just right. It had kept him up. And getting fish was long and tediously boring. Especially at night. So, right, John didn’t always think but whatever. They were here now. 

And Jack was sleeping. All curled up with his journal. Inside the tent, all tucked around the blanket that John kept on his horse and John’s extra jacket, extra because Arthur had chastised him for it for a full day, going in and out of John’s head like a whirlwind until John relented, kicking and screaming mind you, and, hell, of course Arthur had been right. Damn whole-hearted piece of golden light that was…

Quiet.

Arthur hadn’t made a sound yet.

Now, John supposed the man was sleeping wherever he was but John knew better. They both chased sleep relentlessly only to be given it in half, shortened bursts.

And the night was too gorgeous. John laughed quietly to himself. Arthur must be infecting him. Here he was, in front of the fire, watching the night spin her stars and her guiding moon. Deer. John saw them bounding in the background and he’d more than likely see them dance to the howling wolves in his dreams. If sleep would ever fucking come.

John tilted back, back until he was lying down. He squeezed his eyes shut but snapped up when the world around him turned orange and red. His heart slid into overbeat and he held his chest. He whipped his eyes around him but there wasn’t nothing ‘cept the deer, the tent, his horse, Jack, and him, and-. Oh.

“Arthur?”

Because this whole vision turning orange and red thing occasionally was starting to unravel John. It was one thing to have a voice in his head who was apparently a real flesh and blood human being, how magical, how strange, how at once irreverent and yet awful and horrid. But to see colors too? And to feel this, this wrongness, like flashing images of Jack swinging from trees, bleeding crimson, bleeding reds and oranges, bleeding-.

“Arthur, talk to me. Don’t you dare fucking turn your back on me. Just-.”

He scrambled up, stood, and tried to breathe because if he got any louder, Jack would stir. But this was really doing a number on him. Arthur was just so silent and John was getting dizzy. The oranges and reds finally suspended and the world was normal. The night above. The fire in front of him. His horse breathing real and true near him. Jack in the tent behind him. Breathing real and true.

Okay.

Okay.

John pressed his fingers into his eyes and panted out, “Can you at least stop the damn spinning?” He was gonna throw up. Sure of it. Sure-.

“John, jesus, sorry.” Arthur came in, winded. “Had some…rather unfortunate visitors.”

John laughed but it sounded shattered. It flickered just as the fire did. He pulled the puzzle pieces together and squeezed out, “Them reds and oranges? That you killing them?” 

Arthur huffed. “John.”

And John bit. He growled, “No, Arthur, you’re not gonna lie to me no more, you hear? The truth. Now.” He didn’t ask for it. No, he demanded it. He opened his eyes and stumbled further away from the tent. He kept his eyes on it but hid amongst the trees a bit. He slammed his hand on the cracking bark and continued to growl, to bite out, “Just tell me if ‘m going crazy because none of this makes much sense anymore.”

“It doesn’t make much sense to me neither!” Arthur’s harshness made John curl in but Arthur soothed it, said so quietly, “’M sorry, John. Just…it’s them abilities I have that’ve come down to you. But I tell you what, come daylight, I’ll show you the others.” Then, softly, on the backend of a lonely thought, “You got stuck with me and I’m real sorry.”

John smiled at the thought of Arthur’s promise, and the idea that hopefully they wouldn’t be as gruesome and hard hitting as the orange and red ones. And if Arthur didn’t keep his promise, he’d get to kick his ass. Somehow. Oh, John would find a way. And he laughed at that image, and of Arthur’s apologies just as soft and rumbling as thunder. All them sounds…they was heart tinged. “Ain’t no one I’d rather be stuck with.” That was the truth. He laughed even harder. “Wouldn’t wanna be stuck with Dutch.”

“Ah, Dutch, he’s a…he’s a mean old fool stuck in some foolish world of his. But Micah, though. Imagine being stuck to that rat.”

John…he raised his head up from the tree, and squinted. 

He pulled the puzzle pieces tighter together and when Arthur backpedaled, “Some men you can just tell that they’re bad men right from the start.”

But no. John pulled and pulled and when they slammed together, John breathed out, sure, strong, “Arthur, says you were from some…future or other, you wouldn’t happen to know what happens, hm?” Arthur went silent and John knew he was right. He sighed. “Well, that explains how you got in my head.” Kinda. It kinda did. It sure seemed like magic, though. Or some breakdown in John’s already barely there mind. But-.

“You ever hear of prophecy, John? Or, hell, uh, soulmates?” Arthur sounded so small and sheepish. John imagined him rubbing his chin or the back of his neck, all turned away from him and hiding as he spoke such confusing words.

John shook his head. “I don’t know nothing about them such things. But, uh, I do know that you know what happens, Arthur.” He demanded once more. “Tell me.”

And Arthur said amongst the wind, amongst a spot carved in deep on a mountainside, “Micah’ll get into Dutch’s head and…well, ‘m sure it wasn’t all Micah but…it’ll kill a lot of folks.” It was tragic the way Arthur’s voice got chopped up from heart’s grief. John hung his head and pressed a hand against his chest where his own heart seemed to weep for this man in his head, for this man of the future who spoke of such strange things like prophecies and soulmates. 

He mumbled, “Even you?”

Arthur sighed. “Just about.”

He pondered it, dared to wonder about it, “What about me? Or, hell, Abigail and Jack? Are we in your…in your universe?”

That. That got Arthur real quiet before he whispered in a garbled tone, “Nah, I got all three of ya out along with some others. It was, uh, one of the last few good things I did.”

And oh. Oh. John laughed a quiet, tiny huff. “Soulmates and prophecies, huh.” He tasted the words and they sounded funny. No definition came up for it. John wished Arthur was there next to him to write it down so he could drag his fingers along the letters and really sink his whole self into reading it. “Wow. What a world you live in.” 

John could hear Arthur rolling his eyes at him. “You live in it too, idiot.”

John sighed. “Maybe but none of that makes sense to me.”

“Just ask Hosea. ‘M sure he’ll explain it better than I could.”

John narrowed his eyes. “But Hosea’ll ask questions.”

“No. Dutch would. Hosea would keep quiet.”

Something bitter got rolled into John’s words, something that, god if this shit were true, a John that was with this Arthur in his head would’ve felt and meant, “But I always fuck up and I’m always stupid so, yeah, Hosea’ll ask questions.” 

Because, yeah, John tried but he always failed too. It made…John kicked at the Earth. Angry. It was rolling hot in his gut and it threatened to explode, like lanterns spilling, to-.

“Calm down, wolf boy. Just go ask and see where it gets ya. If he gets mad, you come to me.” Then, teasingly, “Look, you’re a Dutch’s boy for sure. ‘S probably for the best we shit on ya to get ya straight.” 

John chewed on that even as he bristled. He thought of the what ifs, and the folks that had passed and gone under Dutch’s hands, in his current universe and, then, in Arthur’s. How John could easily fall into that trap. How he had to always watch himself to ensure that he didn’t go tripping on dreams and passion only to cause the opposites – graveyards of reality and innocent, good folks, and killing from anger and fear. Manipulated, possibly. But blood will always be on your hands, demons in your ears and mind and heart be damned. 

John raised his hands and squeezed them. He wiggled his fingers. They didn’t feel sticky. They didn’t stink with iron. Didn’t make him dizzy with oranges and reds.

Dutch’s boy sure. Like Dutch sure. But he wouldn’t be Dutch. 

He straightened his back, rolled his neck to ease the tension, and walked to the tent. Arthur hummed, full and proud. John smiled, just a tiny bit.

Arthur spoke as quietly and softly as a loving curl, “Sees, I knew you’d get it. Now get you and your boy home and talk to Hosea. I mean it.”

John nodded and looked out, at the rolling night, and then to the hills where the deer paused to meet his eyes. Something in him locked and he stared hard into those far away eyes and promised, as sure and true as prophecies, “Yeah, yeah, ‘m going.”

And John was going. He was-.

+

In the middle of something strange.

He had dropped off Jack, told Abigail he was heading out hunting, which she raised an eyebrow at but he promised to explain later.

And, now, here he was, his ass stuck in a ginseng bush staring out at the rolling hills and waiting for Arthur’s promise, which was, really, far more important than talking to Hosea right now.

Arthur’s voice came in just as the wind picked up, “Okay, here’s this one. It’s uh…Eagle eye. Shows you all the animals and herbs and things you can get.”

John nodded. 

The switch popped his ears and he winced a bit but kept his eyes open for the slide, the smooth edging to full on vision of…greens, soft muted greens that highlighted exactly what Arthur said. He watched the shivery, dancing pops of sparkle that lit up the ginseng around him, and then watched as the same sparkles eased into the hearts of a bounding deer, a dashing rabbit, a soaring bird.

John crawled towards a ginseng bush not far from him and yanked at a clump just as his vision swam back to clear reality. Arthur’s chuckle came in just as he winced at the dizziness, still not used to the switch but Arthur’s presence was good enough of a cure. 

He narrowed his eyes at the clump of ginseng. “Now, whaddya do with it?”

Arthur’s chuckle turned gut busting. John couldn’t help it. He laughed too. And it was strange. It should’ve been.

Hearing a voice and laughing alongside them as if they were real and tangible.

But Arthur had spoken of soulmates and prophecies and somewhere, maybe in ignorance, John wished, hoped, that this was the case and not him breaking, not some sick, sorrowful tragedy where hope and wishes got all twisted and unreal.

He tucked the ginseng into his leather pouch and sighed. 

Arthur said, “Sees, nows a good time as any for the third one. I call it Mother Eye.”

This time, the switch was less so but it was somehow more as it slid into place. It was somehow…John’s heart stuck.

He cleared his throat, focused hard not on that but on the blue tinged world spread out before him. He tilted his head, confused as he watched the sky above spin and spin past him at a faster speed than a day should’ve been. And there were…storms, rolling over the horizon and to the next town. Then, quietness in the coming night. A clearness to the sky after the day’s hard rain.

Arthur grumbled in sharp contrast to the clearness of the night, “Mother Eye is like what nature’s doing and what human’s are doing. Their, uh, moods, I suppose.”

It was a confusing explanation but as the world snapped from blue to reality, John pondered a little harder on it then questioned, “Never seen you use these ones.”

“I’ve tried my hardest to make sure that you don’t.”

“Why?”

Silence.

John clumped his hands into the velvet grass and looked around at the cliffs and the hills. He pulled his hat down further over his eyes to block out the gleaming sun and pulled his knees to his chest. He answered Arthur for him, “Y’know big badass cowboy of the West is actually a big ‘ol softie.”

Growling, “Shut up.” But the teasing was worth it to pry open Arthur’s hiddenness. “Look, I learned the hard way what choice I had to make. And I…I quite rather like looking after you, if you don’t mind me saying such a thing.”

John shook his head and dipped away from the sun a bit, even though it felt like the sun had carved a path in his cheeks permanently. The smile got twisted on his face and it felt new, somehow replaced, reshaped. “I don’t mind at all, Arthur.” 

And he let this, this back and forth, this protection peeking even through words and colors, ease him until it was time to head back, time to face it, time to-.

+

Talking to Dutch was like tip toeing. Submission or piping up with your own thoughts, which one was gonna be okay this time around? Talking to Dutch was like looking into a shattered mirror. 

Talking to Hosea was like…was like…

It was like talking to Arthur.

So, it made it a little easier.

Hosea had, thankfully, seen John’s skittering, jolting body that stunk of his uneasiness and told Dutch to leave them be. Dutch had raised an eyebrow at that, even dared to open his mouth, but something must’ve been in Hosea’s expression because he left the scene without so much as a glance or word.

With him gone, John could breathe. 

He took the chair across from Hosea. He watched as Hosea set down the novel that he had been reading and then gave his full attention to John. John bristled a bit at that but bit out before he could think or take it back, “I was hearing folks in town talking about like…prophecies? And soulmates? If there ever was such a thing as that…”

Hosea tilted his head. “I never thought you’d be interested in those kinds of things.” Hosea’s voice got lighter, like a child’s, as he reached for two tins of coffee, one he gave to John, as he spoke, “All the magical fantasies in the world and the dreams therein.” He chuckled and gave John a teasing look. “You sound anymore like Dutch and we’re gonna have to make you leader.”

But the teasing made John scowl. He took the coffee and shivered at its warmth which clashed with his freezing hands. Heard Arthur, somewhere in memory, tell him he got cold so easy because he had no thoughts up in his head. A cold, empty, vast space. Like winter in Colter. Wrestling with giants, good and evil, and frigidness and wolves and-.

John watched the coffee slip slide in his tin cup. The colors separated. Light. Dark. Dark. Light. Two halves of a whole. One could not be without the other. Sames he supposed for grief and sadness, and joy and delight like begging cry heart, but never break. 

He cleared his throat and looked at Hosea, at this man, this…father-like person who was intently waiting for John to enter this shared space between them, to reveal what had gotten him so shooken. 

And he thought of Arthur who also gave him the same space and dear god, how was he gonna say that Arthur was in his head, that he had been hearing voices for a while now, and that, no, he swore he wasn’t broken down just yet.

He let it go. He asked, “What about voices? Hearing voices, I mean.”

Hosea still…just looked at him with a funny tilt to his head and a pondering down curl of his brow. “Now, that I think is related to prophecies and soulmates, son.”

That…John paused. He sucked in a rattling breath and downed some coffee to burn out his heart’s plea but he couldn’t. He never could. “The voice in my head…he’s uh, funny, or weird, well, look at what I’m saying as if it’s not weird but he is and he thinks there’s prophecies and soulmates and other universes. Says he’s from this other universe where everything went wrong with us and…I – I think he got out, became some weather reporter and a hunter or something like that. Think it’s another warning. Or maybe I’m just crazy.” He groused, “Another damn failure or some foolish hope or something.”

John held the tin cup tight, drank all its contents, then dug its end into the Earth, scooping at bits of mud and pressing them in between his fingers. It was soothing, feeling the mud. What wasn’t was Hosea’s long and on fire stare that was planted on him firmly. Not as firmly as mud but just as willing to suck you in and get you mighty stuck. 

God. John squeezed his eyes shut but salt still leaked out. He sniffed and ran the sleeve of his leather duster along his nose. Horseshoe Overlook was a little warmer but somehow the cold stuck to him.

Just as much as Hosea who…

“So, you’re hearing voices, ones that talk to you about the future you have, the future of the gang, and who also speaks of prophecies and soulmates.”

John nodded. 

“Son, I’m gonna tell you something and you mustn’t tune me out.”

Sighing, John left the tin cup on the ground and looked at Hosea, at the fire that was laid within those features. He looked and kept looking even as Hosea said, sure and strong as river current, as strong and sure as seasons spinning, “Dutch and I…well, you can guess that we are together.” That was no shock to John. He’d seen enough hand holding, and kisses in the dark night when they thought not much else but the birds and animals were looking. “Well, see, he and I knew that would come just a bit before we met.” Hosea turned back into that child, wistful even, as he spread his hands about to weave a picture to match the words. “Oh, it was a shock to my system, it was, to hear Dutch’s voice in my head and there he was, the one robbing me while I was trying to rob him the very next day!” Then, full to bursting with laugher, “Still get a bit of Dutch in my head from other universes sometimes. Could never quit that man.”

John squinted. “What?” Tried to pull the puzzle pieces together but his mind was spinning a dead tune. He watched, sudden, as Hosea laughed and smiled, a wonderous thing it was this-.

“Soulmates, hah, can you believe such a thing? I had told Dutch this and he had said that there were many accounts about it, about prophecies and the like. It’s a, heh, it’s wild stuff but it’s true.” Hosea ran a hand down his cheeks, to his chin, then to rest on his knees. He looked at John, wild spring, and nodded, sure and strong, “That man in your head, he’s yours alright. I’d ‘a hoped he knocked some sense into ya.”

Hosea always made things sound easy, rational, thought out and mused over. But this…this…

John stared back at the Earth, at the tin cup dug into its mud, and frowned. Soulmates. Suddenly, a book was shoved on to his lap. John jumped a bit, knocking the book to and fro. Hosea slapped his shoulder, stilling him so he could turn back to the page he needed John to see. And John saw…he saw…

“Oh, this?” John’s mouth twisted up as he traced the words with his fingers. 

Hosea nodded and pointed at the picture, at the words as familiar as a childhood tune hummed underneath the breath of a mother, hammered in by the father. 

The man in robes that were as nestled in to skin as the tin cup to Earth. He held a fire flickering and blazing as it spilled into a lantern that was swinging as if hung by ropes, as if it was drowning. Through the lantern and its light, the ship behind the robbed man seemed to rise. From evil to good. From dark to light. But, still, this ship, so doomed as it was to land on one place, be spooked to the next, and yet never find a resting spot. From Blackwater to Colter to here to another place farther down the map in some unknown place where one deemed themselves king in an already conquered land. And the moon, the moon full and wise hung above the ship, doing its damnedest to point it to…to…

The flower blooming in the other hand. Spring. As spring as the muddy Earth beneath John’s feet, the same Earth that he had landed in time and time again. And the…god, no.

John shoved the book aside.

But it was too late.

The deer antlers hooked around the robbed man’s neck echoed dark nights. He could practically feel Arthur in those antlers, in the deer that bounded a waltz in John’s mind that played too well against the backdrop of a howling wolf drenched in the drowning waters that a doomed ship spun on and infused with the essence of the flower. 

Together to together. Whole to whole. One not without the other.

John squeezed his eyes shut and let these images play and bound in his mind, blurring into one. Hosea, his hands on his shoulders, pulling him into what he thought was a hug but he refused to open his eyes. Just felt. Felt this. Felt-.

Soulmates. Prophecies. Miracles. Hope. Goodness and light.

It was possible.

It was possible to rise from the bad.

God, was it?

Was it possible?

Hosea soft and slow, “I think your man’s on to something.”

John tsked. “He ain’t mine.” But Hosea’s chuckle was warm, then hollow as he sighed, hard and long as if he had been sighing for way longer than John had paid attention to.

“Dutch…he’s slipping, John.” Everything in John became taught. Cracked Earth. Wolf meeting its hunters bow. “Killing’s all we’ve been doing and killing ain’t us. Not anymore. We’re done. Dutch doesn’t see that.” 

Final shot. Final-. John jerked. Ripped his eyes open. Pulled the puzzle pieces to its shattering conclusion. “I gotta find Arthur. He’s here somewhere.” Knew, like splinters through skin, that the voices were in his head because Arthur was near. Arthur was near.

Hosea looked at him, easily backing away from John’s energy and nodding. “Why, I’d think so. It was how it was with Dutch and I but…John…I don’t, I am just thinking that. I ain’t exactly sure yet.” 

But John knew. Felt it as sure as antler bone wrapped around his neck, no, damn it in his heart. “I gotta find him. Ask him what in the hell is going on here.” He stood, so suddenly that his legs wobbled and he stumbled. Hosea caught him at his elbow, shushing him and he wouldn’t shut the hell up with his, “John, I don’t know. John, c’mon, come back.” Cursing him for his Dutch-like soul. Well, forget that. Forget this.

John left.

He ran.

It was a fool’s errand. 

Arthur had been silent in his head. Wouldn’t return without him feeling the need to or the want to, more like it.

But he had the feeling of Arthur, singing to him along the wind as it whistled through canyons, and eased along tree leaves, as it guided birds into flight, as the animals he saw ran and danced to nature’s tune.

And he had Hosea’s words and he had this…this lantern spilling something hot and molten into his heart.

He didn’t know where to look but he knew that a kind man was rare.

He asked around all the towns, even the ones that Dutch hadn’t infected yet and they all had raved about a man who was kind and who was handsome beyond belief but who had a shot like none other. All the ladies gushed and all the men bitched. 

And, then, John thought of clearings and how it had calmed Arthur when he went near them. He pulled those sounds out from memories and picked through them, listened to their tones and their pitches and found himself in one particular clearing somewhere in between Lake Isabella and Strawberry. 

He didn’t have maps but he had a feeling and a chill had been chasing him the whole way until he slowed his horse to a trot through the clearing. 

And there, there-.

A gun to his head. Chill. The chill that had been chasing him. And John laughed, so loud and rolling that it scared the birds and sent raccoons off into the wild, bursting trees. John smiled, as wide and bright as the sun high above them. 

“Huh.” That voice. God. John was delirious with it as the chill left him and warmth settled in. He turned. And there he was. Arthur. And dear god, the girls were right to be gushing. He was handsome, with his all black shirt and rosy colored vest, and there was a rough kindness to him that spoke for his accurate trigger finger and his heart. There was a light there too, and there was the feeling of muddy Earth. And the man’s eyes, of nature herself, blue and dancing wildly from the color of drowning to every wavy shade in between. 

A dream. 

A prophecy.

A soulmate.

If there was ever a hope to believe in.

“Afternoon, Arthur,” he said. Arthur rolled his eyes and tucked his pistol back into his belt that hung low and heavy on his waist. 

He said, “Took you long enough there, John.” 

And John stepped forward until they were chest to chest and John met his eyes then said, “Show me. Now.”

And Arthur did with a curt, “You’re not gonna like it.” But John didn’t care. They had been doing enough dancing, enough what ifs and maybes. 

He watched as Arthur raised his hands and waited. John didn’t hesitate. He pressed his hands against Arthur’s calloused and rough ones, ones that drew, ones that shot, ones that sought nature’s precious little intricacies, ones that wrestled with demons as strong as drowning. 

Let them lay suspended in the air between them and there, there-.

It was hot.

It was bursting.

John fell on his knees but Arthur landed with him, keeping their hands together and shushing him through it as a world so unlike but so alike raced through John’s mind. In his mind, he was the Arthur that had been spinning in his mind, the one that had given him a warning that Dutch was gonna end up killing a lot of folks, and here it was, splayed before him in trembling view.

He cried. And he screamed. 

As the ones he knew and the ones he had yet to meet fell under Dutch’s hands.

He watched as the light got snuffed out.

And how…how…god, the lion took its share out of Arthur and how Arthur had ensured, through hellfire, that John had made it along with his family and with a few good, kind folks that were in the gang. 

And this, this was the man that by some universe’s hand had been bonded to him. And John held on and he let himself be held, be wrapped as Arthur hung on to him as if he was dying, as if he had perished, as if Arthur had not done one final loving act but one final tragedy.

And god, god. 

John collapsed into Arthur’s warmth, huffing gunpowder and herbs and Earth and a slight sweetness. Just Arthur. And this. Whole. He grabbed at Arthur’s shirt, bunching it, as Arthur ran his hands though John’s hair and fought at the knots there. This. His.

John wondered about the voice in his head, if the universe had given him a different Arthur to hear so that the same tragic end wouldn’t occur in another. He held Arthur a little tighter and Arthur shushed him, a tune as deep and warm as his voice. 

Realized now, as sudden and frigid as the chill, that the Arthur in his arms wasn’t his world’s Arthur.

He heaved. He cried harder. As he let Arthur go. He sliced up his breaths and offered them on a silver plate. He took out his heart and laid it on his sleeve. And he let him go…he let him go.

“I’m sorry. You should probably go back to where you came from.” 

Arthur looked at him as John backed away, on his knees, through mud and needling brush. His eyes…drowning blue, spinning sky. Truth. Honesty. Arthur nodded. “Of course. ‘M sorry you don’t…y’know, that you don’t got me, even though I ain’t much but I, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck and the motion made John sorrowfully sick. “I do gotta return.”

John nodded for now the conclusion was truly settling in.

That this Arthur belonged to some different universe and he didn’t belong here, with John. And, god, that warmth, the touch as real as the plants he was wading through, as the sounds of chittering birds, as on fire as the sun, on his cheeks, his neck, in his hair. Arthur there, and John trembling from the chasing cold. “I want you to know, though, that I will be here-.” Hands cradled his head and John blinked back tears. “When you need it, okay? I…I trust you to survive under Dutch, okay? And do what you can to…to-.”

“To get as many out as possible and to help as many as possible.” The words came as easy as the prophecy song. John scrubbed at his cheeks, winced at the pulse of his wolf scars, and sighed, spitting out, “Just go, Arthur. I got this, alright?” He really didn’t and the falsity stunk but Arthur did. His warmth was soon gone, into the wild trees beyond, and into the bounding deer.

And John stood there, wondering if what he had seen was real or not.

And wondering too if he could do this.

If he could stop the great, dying end.

+

Yeah, no, John could not do this. 

But, shit, he sure needed to.

He looked at Dutch’s bounty that was coiled tightly in his hands, then at Micah, and, finally, to the camp tittering around him in blurring noise. 

He had told Abigail that they had needed supplies in Valentine, and to take the boy too. She had hesitated, had seemed to know the waves coming off John were tragically angry. But he ensured her that it was some debts he had to collect and probably some other errands that’d come along. And she had gone with final look at him and it was almost like looking at Arthur leaving.

Stinging cold drenched in oranges and reds was his guide.

He stopped outside Dutch’s tent and asked, “Dutch, hey, can we talk about that debt I got?” Because that shouldn’t be suspicious. He hadn’t sensed Micah moving in his periphery but the fly always moved so silently, so quietly vicious in its plans and its words.

Hosea opened the tent flap, beckoning John in. There was something new in his eyes like he was looking at John all different. Made sense. Last time they had talked, John had mentioned Arthur in his head and had bolted. 

“John, it’s good to see you, son. How did that debt go?” Hosea questioned. John watched him as he spoke, as the older man fell into a familiar rhythm with Dutch, taking his left and sitting in the chair beside him. Dutch thumbed through the book in his hands for a beat before he shut it, looking once at Hosea, and, then, at John. His eyes narrowed at him and John felt caught.

But still. Just do it. Do it. Do-.

He slammed the bounty poster down on the table between them. “I think this debt of mine has really been after this the whole damn time, don’t cha think?” He couldn’t help the leaking, bleeding bitterness as cold as dying on a damn mountainside left to be eaten by the lion that orchestrated it all but whose listener had all the blood on his hands. Tinged and guided by oranges and reds and antler bones, he added, “Now, I think our little rat infestation problem needs to be taken care of.”

He hadn’t said a name but Hosea knew and Dutch did.

It was a shaky silence.

And John breathed, hot and heavy, in, out and when he was met with this same shaky silence, he said, with finality, “I love you Dutch but your son isn’t gonna stick around for you to kill us all one by one and I ain’t gonna be around to see you do it all because of fucking money.”

But, god, he faltered, just a bit, when Dutch met his eyes.

It, again, was like looking into a shattered mirror.

Dutch, mud and Earth, covered in dead black and luscious red. A doomed ship doused in night and in the blood it had spilt. 

John breathed, easy now, as he stood straighter, as he met Dutch’s gaze, sure, strong. He met Dutch as a broken man who had come to believe in greater things, some of it similar to Dutch’s beliefs but certainly not twisted for personal gain. 

To believe in dreams and hopes and prophecies and soulmates, it was wonderous, it kept one going. 

Yes, to be kind and good. 

But to fully immerse yourself in it was a fool’s errand because you couldn’t have one without the other, not light without the dark, not beauty without the tragedy. 

Seeing only one or the other was blindness. 

And choosing one or the other to live by was the final choice, was seeing clearly.

And John, here and now, had made his choice.

He stepped forward and with each boot press into Earth, he felt like he was growing lantern fire wings, like he was rising, like he was growing, like he was seeing so vastly and so clearly.

He met this man, this father of his, and said, even as Dutch stood to meet him, “I ain’t in the killing business so tell me Dutch, is you? Because if you is, I ain’t staying around to see you fall. And you will fall. I know you will.” He didn’t mention Arthur but his voice, to John at least, was twined through every syllable like his hands winding through his hair to fight the knots. 

And John looked up and down Dutch’s form. This…kid, really, who thought himself worthy to be king. A man dressed in black like the damn grim reaper whose horse was white, painted in innocence as fake as the heart that it carried throughout all the lands to massacre, to take, and kill. He didn’t wanna ever believe Dutch was capable. But maybe he had never really knew Dutch at all. Something in him questioned if his Dutch was just the same as Arthur’s, as the one from a different universe. He wondered if he really could stop this. Or if he just had to turn his back like a coward who had tried but lost.

He didn’t wanna beg. 

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to beat it into Dutch’s head. He wanted-.

Footsteps.

The din of the camp faded, not from blurriness but its ceaseness.

Orange and red slotted into place as John pushed open the tent flap, which felt as heavy as a barn door.

He looked at Micah, at the group that he had rag tagged together. All men looking for gold in mountains and that’s all there was to their souls. Just a wandering for gold. Kill any in your way.

In your pursuit to be a lion.

In your pursuit for perpetual darkness, neverending evil.

His choice.

And this was John’s.

“Hello, gentleman.”

The shot was startling.

Each target clocked in reds and oranges. The world fading into dizziness as shots whizzed out of John’s gun, and John could feel the shattered, sticky spray on the sides and front of his jacket.

The sounds of the camp tittered out into screams and shocked exclamations. 

And John just…stood there, drinking it in as the oranges and reds, like sunsets end on a mountainside and like the tuft and fur of a slinking lion and like spilling lanterns, subsided. 

And there. There.

Micah was dead on the Earth along with his fellow shit head comrades. Heads all blown to pieces and guts seeming to drip from every part of their worthless brains. Huh. John didn’t even know Micah had anything up there, although he was sure that if he had shot the rat’s heart, black, the impressions sewn into Dutch’s vest, would’ve spilt from its remains. 

And Dutch, quiet, as he looked at John with something soft and sparkling which was so oddly paired with Micah’s crumpled body, his dead comrades, the shocked van der Linde members, and the quiet chittering of nearby birds. And he said, “Well, lookie there! You did good, John.” He slipped his hands around Micah’s corpse, digging out a payment from the O’Driscoll himself, as if he knew its placement, its plan. “Hah, see, you’re not the only one whose got their head screwed on straight, John. Now, help me drag him and his friends over the cliff edge. And Miss Grimshaw will you please start packing everything up! I think a farm, maybe or…Hosea, how about the West again?” 

Hosea pushed past John’s frozen body and nodded, exclaiming, “A farm. That sounds glorious, Dutch.” 

And John did as he was told. He grabbed Micah’s legs, heaved him up, and helped Dutch carry him to the cliff edge. Like a mountainside. Except a completely different ending.

And it was a shock to the system, a shattering to his core, to get everything into place and when they had swung Micah over, he got it. He said, “So ‘m guessing ‘m not the only one getting visited by voices?”

Dutch laughed and said, “No, Hosea’s ruthless and relentless even in other universes and he wouldn’t stop pestering me about it so…yes, I knew he was the rat.” He patted his pockets and pulled out a cigarette. John watched the smoke puff and plume. Then, Dutch met his curious and confused gaze. And Dutch hummed, “Now, tell me about that voice in your head, son. Seems like he’s the one keeping your head on straight.”

And John said, sure and strong, “His name’s Arthur.”

He had told the same to Abigail as they watched the world spin slowly around them inside the wagon, Jack curled in between them, finally sound asleep tucked around a journal, tucked around the drawings within and it reminded him so much of Arthur that he whispered to Abigail all about him.

Her confused glances like she wasn’t believing a word he said. “Sounds like you been reading one of Jack’s stories.”

But John grabbed her hand. She was small. And she was warm. And she was strong. And she was biting. And she wasn’t Johns. “Y’know…” And there was no way around saying this because either way, it would sound harsh and he knew she’d scream, she’d cry but the truth was better than all them lies. “I don’t love you like that Abigail…’m sure I did. A lot. But not now.”

Her hands, shaking, cradled his head and tangled small, deft fingers perfect for sewing, for cradling plants to grow, through his ratty hair. “You’re an idiot, John Marston.”

John laughed. He’d been hearing that a lot lately. But he looked into her eyes and was shocked to see no quiverness, no tears. She continued, as wise as the full moon guiding the doomed ship, “There’s all sorts of different loves, John. And I love you so fiercely but it ain’t…it ain’t, god, it ain’t like marriage.” She shook her head strongly at that and John nodded because no, that wouldn’t be good for the boy. Never drag an innocent into the fighting ring. 

“I love you like that too.” It was awkward and shy and it got him a smacking kiss on his cheek. 

“Still an idiot, John.” But, then, she hummed and massaged her hands down from his head to his neck. “Now, who do you love, John, because someone’s been making sense in that head of yours and I know it hasn’t been me.” It sounded…a little sorrowful because the death of their passionate love will always have a grave marker and it’ll always sting.

But…maybe with time. Who knows if such a hope was foolish. But at least the truth was there to aid in the mending. John tilted into her touch and kept his gaze on her, just her, as he said, “It’s crazy talk but the world’s mad, Abigail.” She tsked him because of course the world was crazy, look at where they were and where they had come from. He continued, “There’s soulmates and prophecies and there’d been…there was this voice-.” He looked at Jack, tucked in between them and sighed, “When I left…this voice came to me and I thought it was over, that I was truly a fool, but…Hosea explained it to me, said soulmates come to you as voices and that there’s this prophecy that speaks a lot about how all four of us, Hosea, Dutch, me, and…his name’s Arthur, so, him too, how we’re all whole, how the universe makes it so.” He shook his head and looked out, away. “I know it don’t make much sense but I…I believe it.”

Abigail’s hands fell away from him and the absence was hollow.

“You really are talking like one of Jack’s stories.”

John bowed his head, felt ready for the slip of rope. “I don’t expect ya to get it…I just…Arthur means something to me.”

“A different kinda love.” It wasn’t a question but a statement and John nodded, slow and sorrowful. 

“I think it could be.”

Abigail huffed. “Well, you know I don’t care about you being with some man. Just…make sure he’s a good man.”

“Of course.” He turned to her, then, and met her eyes which were watching the trees whir by. Slowly, she met his gaze and there it was, the shakiness was there. He felt like shit for making her cry, for doing this to her when she didn’t deserve it. He grabbed her hands, sudden and fiercely, just as on fire as his next words, “But I promise you that no matter what, you and Jack are important to me and will continue to be.”

She wept. She hiccupped out, “John.” And she tangled her arms around his neck and John held her as tight as he could with Jack still in between them. It was…it felt like an end of a chapter but the beginning of another. Her warmth was solid, something to lean on but it reminded him too of Arthur, of his ability to be like stable Earth. Each to each.

He squeezed her, then let her tumble back to sit on the wagon floor. She wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. It was a pale blue shirt pulled over one of her favorite skirts that checkered and swam between browns and creams. She was gorgeous, even after shattering her. He whispered, “I hope you find someone too. Someone who’ll treat you right.” He tacked on, teasingly, “In all things.”

She laughed, hiding it behind her sleeve but it was too much for the fabric. She laughed and laughed and John followed suit. “John Marston! Only you can say such things.” 

A piece of hair slipped from her bun and John reached to tuck it back in, to somehow make it seem that through one action, he could also tuck all the pieces of her heart back together. But that wasn’t his place now. All he could do was hold the pieces and mend them jaggedly and shakily until someone better came along to take them from him and pull them together perfectly. 

After that, they tittered off into silence, worn from their honesty, they laid there together on the wagon floor in fitful sleep with Jack peaceful between them.

And there, that night, as he slept on a rattling wagon heading West, he heard it, a voice, crumpled and weary, “Shit, ‘s there really dinosaurs? Ah, heck, these are dinosaur bones!” And laughed and laughed into his sleeve because dinosaurs, really? What were those things anyway? But it didn’t matter because this sure as shit sounded like his Arthur, the one that was of his time, and he listened to that voice prater on and on about dinosaurs, whatever those were, and then soft whistling that lulled John to sleep.

And he dreamed.

And he dreamed.

Yes, he-.

He was awoken by his voice.

“Woah, there. ‘M just passing through.”

“Hm, what’s your name kid?” Dutch searching for the wayward, to give homes to the broken.

“Uh…” Hesitation. Truth or lie? And John begged for truth, begged for-. “Arthur.” A raspy throat clear. “Uh, Arthur Morgan.”

Then, Hosea, light and teasing, “Why, that name does sound familiar. Arthur, how does a farm in the West sound?”

Dutch’s slight confusion at Hosea’s familiarity, “Hosea, are you-?”

“Dutch, this man stopped you from killing all of us so, yes, I think he deserves a spot with us. Now-.” Hosea getting down from the wagon. Jostling John about. And…and…

John rose from his sleeping position and the wait and the silence ‘cept for footsteps dragging themselves through mud was tantalizing and slow and merciless.

He breathed in. Out.

And when Hosea whipped the back end of the wagon down, John he…he smiled, soft and quiet, as Arthur met his eyes. Shocked, the man stumbled a bit, Hosea pushing him in, and there, there. 

Arthur climbed up into the wagon and wobbled next to him, watching as Jack and Abigail slept to the right of John. He was kneeling awkwardly and brushing a hand along the back of his neck. “John, I suppose?” Blue met his eyes like spinning skies, like Mother Eye.

And John rolled his eyes. “Now whose the fool?” 

Arthur’s laugh was just as warm and shattering as it was in his head. “I heard a lot about you. You know…you wouldn’t shut up.”

John’s laugh joined his in their own little dance and said, “Tell me all about it.”

And their stories unraveled and twined.

Universes separated and conjoined to ensure this.

And, god, all you have to do is believe in hopes, in wishes, in soulmates and prophecies, and, then, choose the light in the dark, the good that could rise from drowning in the evil, the trees that can grow bursting to rebirth and not to death. Each to each. One not existing without the other. 

Yes, this.

Listen.

Listen to the carry home waltz.


End file.
